Filignil

She returned nigh midday, to find Estarfin speaking casually with the Dwarven workers about the wall building. He hailed her as she rode past him to the stables. Despite his earlier words, he did not seem particularly at ease.

“Any news, Yrill?”

A pork loin cold and pale did lie

In a pan, trussed and string uptied

What would be its uncertain fate?

But a hero soon swung open the gate -

With a spoon, like a sword, in his hand

The baster-as-weapon would save all the land!

He ground, and chopped, and then mixed up

Salt, pepper, and onion (about half a cup)

Fennel, honey, and mustard so bright

Wine, ginger, and clove, a glorious sight!

He whisked and scraped with flourish and glee

This tasteful sauce, so wonderful-ly

The elves passed by a tall oak tree where a few salvaged household goods lay scattered in the grass. Parnard half-expected to see Filignil sitting among them, perhaps counting the silverware, but she was nowhere to be seen. At last they came in sight of the great old house, its front door broken and crazily hanging from one hinge, doormat still in place, a sardonic welcome to the travel-weary elves. “There it is,” he found himself saying.

Midsummer was quickly approaching, and to Parnard’s surprise, Danel and Estarfin expected a huge feast, complete with dancing on the grass, despite the attack on Númenstaya and the killing of Aearlinn. He wondered secretly at this, but made no remark or protest, reminding himself that since it is a high feast day, a day set apart as one of the most hallowed days of the Elven calendar, the Noldor would not permit anything to disrupt their celebration, least of all a group of murdering, bloodthirsty, pillaging men.

Folk were talking, whispering almost confidentially as I passed them at the stables.

“That is Filignil. She was at Numenstaya,” 

“That is their Housekeeper. Why is she in Imladris?”